Her Love For Him Was Everlasting
by shen summoner
Summary: 'It isn't possible, she thought, because the man standing before her, the man she had loved with all of her being, was supposed to be dead.'


Warning :- This is an extremely violent, mature, dark fic. To be honest, it probably contains almost all the stuff people are uncomfortable with; the stuff authors put warnings for. So, if you have a problem with that, I suggest you stop reading. If not, well, read on.

There is absolutely NO mention of the characters possessing magic in this fic (except that one part). It is AU. Bear with me.

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**Her love for him was everlasting**

She kicked a pebble in disbelief, as she eyed her phone again. No missed call, no text message. Even her bloody shoes refused to cooperate.

She'd pulled up a few minutes ago, because there had to be a stop sign. At least, that's what Ginny had told her. Her sweet, dear friend had set her up on a date.

She figured that she would wait out here, in this desolate, shady road for only five more minutes, before getting back in her car and driving away, to wallow in self-despair and a glass or two of that Rhenish wine she'd purchased just a couple of weeks back.

Fuck, she thought to herself, as she lost her balance. Her heel had broken. And she was particularly fond of that pair of shoes. She muttered to herself in frustration, as she slung the shoes over her shoulder, adjusting the hem of her nearly non-existent black dress.

They'd all thought her to be a slut, when she'd first started dressing like this; all black and tight and short. But she didn't care. She was past acknowledging what other people thought about her. Deep down, she almost hoped she'd fall into trouble, perhaps a victim of a brutal murder; perhaps found by the police a month later, her bloody vesture rotten and unidentifiable.

She turned to get back into her second-hand car, when her eyes widened. Because unbelievably, standing before her, was none other than Tom Riddle.

It isn't possible. It simply isn't, she thought, because she had seen him die right before her eyes. She had, in that instant, been the perpetrator of the crime. She had killed him; she had been the one to thrust her curved dagger right into his gut, tearing his abdomen apart. She had been the one to smile a joyous, gleeful smile, as she had held his head in her lap and stayed with him, right until the very last breath had fled his mouth, right until the very last drop of blood had oozed out of his useless carcass.

She strode over to him, purposefully. She stopped when she was close enough to inspect the dried blood staining the corner of his mouth. And that mouth. That mouth hadn't changed one bit, she registered. It was still pink, with dead skin flakes partly attached to it's thin upper and lower parts. He had never been fond of chapstick; she remembered very well. His skin was pale, as pale as she had left it, and his eyes were pools of molten lava, dark as death, black like her clothing. He wasn't human, she decided, as he grabbed hold of her arm with insurmountable force, strong enough to break her bones. His skin was unnaturally cold; his palms calloused; his fingernails, dirty and long, pressing crescent shape marks onto her creamy skin, hard enough to draw blood.

She didn't utter a word as he pushed her into the passenger-seat of her car, manning the wheel himself. He had driven her around many times, because it was the gentlemanly thing to do. She drew in a sharp breath when he reached over to pull her seat-belt across her body, locking her securely. His skin was tight, she noticed, as he put his hands on the steering wheel and changed the gears.

He was the same Tom she had loved, and he was the same Tom she had killed. The same lean, tall, and devilishly handsome Tom, who had stolen her heart to make it his own. His hair looked the same, but on keener observation she concluded that it was softer than before, shinier than before.

She didn't say a word when he pulled up in front of her house, 'their' house, and neither did she utter a word when he got out of 'their' car and opened the door for her, like the perfect gentleman that he had always been. Only, this time, his cold hands were dragging her to the door, even though she wasn't putting up a fight. It was useless to. She knew that he was stronger than her, because whatever he was, he wasn't human.

They were in their house now. He was dragging her to their bedroom now. She had fallen to the floor, but he was dragging her by the hair now, and she didn't let out a single whimper. She was stronger than that. She wasn't affected, anymore.

He threw her across the room, and her head struck against the bed-post. There was blood; she was vaguely aware of droplets of sharp, red, brilliant blood seeping down her forehead, but before she could react, he had knelt down next to her and licked it off. Her blood. He had licked off her blood.

She went back in time. As a child, she would listen to myths. About witches, and sorcerers, and werewolves, and vampires. Was he a vampire? She couldn't know for sure. He had always been eccentric that way, she recalled. He had licked off her blood once before too, when she'd nicked a finger on a particularly sharp-edged knife.

"You've missed me, love, haven't you? " he whispered into her ears, his voice retaining the same husk it had possessed a year ago. "I've waited for so long. I've wanted you for so long. I knew you would never leave the little heaven we had made on this earth. This house, this bed, it is all ours, sweetheart."

He was scaring her. He had always been like this. He cupped her face with his hands gently, in comparison to the treatment he'd rendered just a while ago.

"I killed you," she spat out.

"But I can never leave you, my darling. I told you, remember? "

And she did. His last words, choked out on his own spit and blood had been, "I'll be back, love."

"What are you?" she asked, incredulously.

"I am the man of your dreams, my sweet Hermione. I am the one who has loved you his whole life."

"No. You're the one who tried to control me your whole life. You're the one who tried to supress my opinions, my feelings. You're the husband who tried to beat me into submission. And I'm the wife who dutifully listened to you, until it got too much. I'm the wife who loved you, with all my heart, just hoping, that you would go back to being the man I had fallen in love with, not the monster I had married. And I'm the wife who killed you, the wife who tore you apart, the wife who relished seeing her husband breathe his last. "

He chuckled. She was furious. But then his eyes, if it were even possible, turned a darker shade of black, a black that reminded her of the hell she would be sent to. His lips sealed into a thin line as he looked her up and down. His nose flared, and his fists clenched. He was angry. Angry that she had dressed so provocatively, angry that she had broken one of his rules. She laughed.

"What have I told you about wearing such clothes?" His voice was calm.

Was it a rhetorical question, she pondered, going back to when he had almost broken her arm when she had gone to the beach in a bikini.

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT WEARING SUCH CLOTHES?"

He was very angry. Good, she thought, smiling to herself. Perhaps he'd finish her off. Perhaps he'd finish off the sorry game of her life.

"You abominable slut. You've been whoring around, haven't you? Who's fucked you when I was gone? WHO?"

He was furious now. He was gripping her arms tightly, shaking her with every word. Her teeth clattering in her mouth, only seemed to annoy him further, as he rained down blow after blow on her soft face, marring her pretty features with his hands. He was much too strong, she thought, as she dropped to the ground on her side, red blood spilling from her mouth. What had he become?, was the question running rampant in her mind.

He picked her up by her arms and threw her onto the bed, unbuckling his trousers. She shut her eyes, not wanting to see this mad-man, because she knew what was next.

"You will regret wearing this, love, " he whispered into her ear, all the while bunching her dress up to her waist, so that her black knickers were clearly visible.

He pulled them down in one swift motion, and thrust a finger inside of her, drawing blood because of his jagged, curved fingernails.

"Not a drop, sweetheart. That's a pity. Seems like you aren't that happy to see me after so long.

"This is your punishment, " he spat out, as he pulled down his pants, and thrust into her, in a swift, single motion. She was his. She had always been. He knew her body better than his own, and he had owned her, until that wretched day, when she had killed him.

It was excruciating for her. He was not kind. He was not slow. He mercilessly fucked her, thrusting his whole length into her body, the pace breakneck and frantic. Her hands were flailing about, desperately, and she was crying out, but there was no one to hear her scream. He was ruthless; her head banged against the metal bed-post repeatedly, and she faintly registered her dress being torn.

Then his mouth was everywhere. On her face, on her breasts, on her stomach. She was violated. And he was so strong. No one heard her cries for help. No one but him. And when he was finally spent, when his slimy ejaculation was dripping down her inner thighs, he rested his forehead against hers, holding her head firmly in place with his hands.

"I've missed you for so long. A year without you has been incredibly hard for me. You don't know what I've been through, sweet love."

Her eyes were shut. She had always been this weak. And she hated herself for that. She would never be able to best him physically. Not until she found out what he had become.

"Tell me," she sighed, finally opening her eyes, and looking into his, the same eyes with which she had fallen in love so long ago. "What are you?"

"I'm a vampire," he breathed out, wiping at her clammy forehead with his cool hands. "I was found by one after you tried to kill me."

"I remember you dying in my arms. You had no pulse."

"Yes, darling, but that was only a temporary shut-down of my body. I was lucky to be found by it when you left me in that forest. It turned me into one, and that's the same reason I'm here tonight. To turn you into one. I can't bear to be away from you, my love. I am invincible. I want you to be too. I want us to be together, alike in every way. You will give me that satisfaction, won't you, love?"

She nodded. "In my heart, Tom, I have never stopped loving you. I regretted killing you with every fibre of my being. But I was tired of being weak. I was tired of being the one who was trampled upon. I wanted to prove to myself that I was brave. I wanted to prove to myself that I was strong.

"And I love you. I always have. I am ready to change my being in order to be with you. I will do whatever it takes to match up to you, to certify as an equal, worthy enough of your love and admiration."

He beamed. He said some things, then. But all she heard was the roaring in her ears. She registered him saying that the transformation would take place tomorrow, at midnight; the night of the full moon. And she smiled a smile not dissimilar to the one she had while stabbing him with her favourite dagger, the one with the ornamental carvings on it's handle.

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The next morning dawned bright and sunny. She woke up in his arms; he was crushing her, unknowingly so. She utilised that time to study his beautiful features. Everyone had wondered why he had chosen to fall in love with someone as plain and nondescript as her. He used to reply that no one could choose who they fell in love with, and yet, if in another life, he had the chance to choose, he would choose her again.

The little movement on her part did not pass unknown to him; he stirred soon, and beamed at her, giving her a loving kiss. She rolled out of his tight grasp, but was stopped by firm hands as she was about to draw the drapes.

"The sunlight," he said, and that explained it all.

The day passed fleetingly; they forgot to keep track of time. He told her wondrous stories, of his struggles as a new-born, his desire to come back home, his master. He would introduce her to his master, he promised. He bragged of slaying other horrific, mythical creatures, but winced if even the faintest beam of natural light touched his skin. She cherished him like this; lovable, and in control. When he was this way, he was just a little worse than a man, but experience had taught her that when he was angry, he was just a little better than a beast.

Well, he was a beast, now. Soon, she would become one too. She went through some books in their little library when he napped; he claimed to need energy for the transformation to take place successfully.

And then, at the strike of a quarter-to-twelve, he signified his arrival by wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder gently.

"You will be beautiful, my sweetheart," he whispered.

She led him outside. They had an exceptionally serene, peaceful house, surrounded by heavy forest on three sides. One of the primary reasons they had bought the quaint house was because it was cut-off from the rest of the world. It had been their little universe.

"I want you to show me how strong you are," she demanded.

He chuckled, and went forward to uproot a tree. She stopped him.

"Not a tree. The fence."

He was confused, but did as asked. Sometimes, while proving to others his physical and mental capacity, he often forgot to think rationally.

A portion of the fence was uprooted, now; a marr on their beautiful two-storey house surrounded by a white picket fence.

"I want you to make love to me," she pleaded. "One last time, in my human body. I want to experience the blood coursing through my veins, one last time, Tom."

She pulled him to the ground, straddling him, and planted open mouthed kisses down the side of his jaw. He was getting restless, however. His hands were fumbling, trying to get as much clothing off of their body as fast as possible. When his shirt was off, Hermione held his arms above his head in a fierce lock, and he let her. His breast was exposed, and that was the opportunity she had been waiting for.

Quicker than lightning, she grabbed hold of the uprooted part of the fence, and rammed it into his heart, enjoying the expression of pain and disbelief which stained his pretty features.

First, a wooden or metal stake must be driven through the heart of the vampire, she recited in her brain, shoving the pointed end of the fence deeper into his heart, his cries of anguish music to her ears. The dark red blood oozing out from his body was almost black, staining her delicate hands, and she wore it with pride, as if it were henna.

Then, its head must be completely severed from its body.

She fiercely pulled out the stake from his heart, leaving behind a gaping hole. He was almost dead, but she wasn't satisfied. She was laughing now. Deep, ringing, loud laughter, which didn't sound like it belonged to her. She was a woman possessed, mad with the desire to eliminate the tyrant in her life, once and for all.

She sliced his neck with the blood stained stake repeatedly, satisfied only when his head was separate from his body. But she kept slicing; slicing through his body, slicing through his head.

She dragged the two parts of her husband deeper into the forest. She took out his favourite lighter from her pocket, setting a tree on fire. She knew that it would probably spread through the entire forest, leaving behind a raging fire, engulfing the beautiful house they had built together. She was still laughing. She was overjoyed. She was blissful.

She threw the remains of her late husband, her darling precious Tom into the fire, jumping with joy when the fire storm gave no indication of subsiding anytime soon. Very soon, she was surrounded by it; fire on all sides; orange and red, hot, burning fire.

This had been the place where they had taken many walks in the moonlight together. They had intertwined their fingers, and whispered sweet nothings into each others ears. They had kissed in this forest, they had made memories in this little heaven of theirs, promising to love each other till their last breath.

And then she fell to the ground, her shoulders shaking with mirth and sorrow, because she had killed him again, and this time, he wouldn't come back. She mechanically took out a small pouch containing holy water. She had gone to church last week, and taken some for her home, to ward off any evil spirits. But she was evil too. She sprinkled the water around her; she was still laughing; Tom would never come back, and she was going to hell.

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A/n - Please leave a review to tell me what I did right and/or wrong.


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